


not what proper boys do

by kiiouex



Series: TRC Kink Prompts [1]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, References to Substance Use, Spitroasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 02:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiiouex/pseuds/kiiouex
Summary: Ronan’s eyes fix on Gansey, lucid, not quite ashamed, miles from proud. Some ugly confession passing between them; he is there because he wants to be, and it's Gansey’s fault for coming to see it.“Fine,” Gansey says, “let’s share.”





	not what proper boys do

**Author's Note:**

> eyy I'm doing kink prompts for tumblr [over here](http://kiiouex.tumblr.com/post/159557745989), this was #55 'Relax Your Throat' for Ronan/Gansey/Kavinsky but uh is only very loosely related to that. Writing PWP is hard okay I don't know what to do without 1k of context so you're all going to have to go along with me
> 
> Beta-read by [that lady who betas all my stuff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/telekinesiskid), what a gal

It’s something like three in the morning, and Gansey has gone to bed and gotten up again in three tedious iterations. It’s not a hot night, but he kicks off his blankets, his sheets, lies just in his boxers and imagines Ronan coming home and laughing to see him like that. But Ronan’s room is empty, and Noah’s never home these days, so it’s just him and the faint tap of some fat, lazy blowfly trying to find the open part of the window.

His phone buzzes, and it’s not going to be Ronan, it’s never going to be Ronan, but Gansey gets up to check it anyway, has to rub at his eyes and find his glasses for the picture he gets to make sense. It’s just blurry flesh, and he has to tip his head sideways, catch a glimpse of that black tattoo hooked around a shoulder before the picture shudders into meaning; Ronan Lynch, cum smeared over his chest, his stomach, neck flushed red and his head tipped just far back enough that Gansey can’t see his expression.

The text that follows from Kavinsky is about as literate as any of the messages he sends Gansey at three in the morning. _miss ur boy?_ it reads, and it joins the end of a very long, one-sided text chain, full of _he’s feeling good tonight_ and _he ever moan my name when he’s with you?_ and _don’t wait up, I’m gonna drop him off late_. Gansey has never actually responded; Kavinsky seems to know that they’re received solely by the set of his jaw whenever they’re unfortunate enough to run across each other.

Gansey flicks back to the picture, studies the twist of Ronan’s body, his bloodless knuckles clenched tight, sweat gleaming on him, and he wonders if Kavinsky came on him just to get this picture. Something inside him curls tight, hot and furious. It’s a mockery of his concern; it’s Kavinsky trying to leave Ronan so sore and aching he won’t be forgotten, not even when Ronan’s back in Monmouth where he belongs.

He doesn’t feel tired anymore. It’s a good time to make bad decisions, and he knows it, and he just can’t put his phone back down this time. He finds his boat shoes, pants and a jacket, no need for a wallet just car keys, and no need to lock up because no one’s coming by. The Pig is too loud in the night, another impulse, and he knows he’s just encouraging himself when he dares to push the car a little faster, engine as hungry and restless as he is.

Gansey can justify it to himself as much as he wants, can pretend like it’s not possessiveness threading through him, can lie and say he’s just going to take Ronan home, he’s not going to talk to Kavinsky, he’s not going to grab Ronan by the back of the neck and make Ronan groan low in the base of the throat in some terrible, territorial display that would probably only spur Kavinsky on more. But he knows that all the sources of his common sense are not around to intervene, better-half Adam probably up for work already, Blue asleep in a very different world, and he wants – he _wants_ , and he has been putting up with Kavinsky for far too long and _fuck_ Ronan for making him.

Kavinsky’s house is one in a line of ugly, expensive ten-year-old homes, which Gansey has visited several times before, usually to collect drunk crewmates or drunk Ronans from parties. There are lights on downstairs, and for a moment Gansey wonders if he’s going to have to have a very unpleasant conversation with one of Kavinsky’s parents, before he finds the front door unlocked and, in the spirit of _fuck it_ , lets himself in.

All the sound is coming from downstairs, the fuzzy cacophony of simulated gunfire playing from some movie, and Gansey picks his way over the squalor to find a path to it. Ronan has mentioned Kavinsky’s home theater before, in one of those rare times when he felt comfortable enough talking about Kavinsky in front of Gansey, and it sounded both squalid and underutilized. Gansey’s parents would never sacrifice a room of their historic mansion to be a waste-of-space theater, when it could be a sitting room no one went into instead.

The film playing is a modern action thing, all muzzle-flash and unreasonable ammo counts, and it drowns out the sound of Gansey approaching. He’s afraid he’ll see Ronan still stretched out like he’d been in the picture, still so obviously _used_ , but instead he finds him, head in Kavinsky’s lap, eyes only half-open, curled up something like content. Gansey takes a moment to remind himself that Kavinsky is the one at fault; Kavinsky with his feet up on the next row of seats, beer in hand, sunglasses off, teeth gleaming in a too-wide smile as he says, “Dickie! Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m here for Ronan,” Gansey tells him, trying to make it true by saying it, that he isn’t there for a fight or a contest, isn’t there to grab a handful of Kavinsky’s lapels and make it ugly, because what did his father always say, something about gentlemen not needing to resort to fists, something about _only vulgar men_ that did not apply when Gansey was feeling so vulgar.

Kavinsky can see it, though. Backlit by the screen, he keeps grinning, a hollow thing, and he’s been drinking for hours already, taking his substances, indulging himself, and he settles a hand on top of Ronan’s head, says, “I thought we were sharing. Didn’t you ever learn to share?”

Kavinsky knows he can win, because Gansey cares more, because Gansey can’t keep Ronan leashed, like he wants to, like he _should_ , can’t forbid him anything if he wants to keep pretending like they’re equals with equal capabilities. Kavinsky knows he can win because Ronan’s tee is stuck to his stomach, and he will always appeal to the low and base and meet a need that he thinks Gansey never could.

Ronan’s eyes fix on Gansey, lucid, not quite ashamed, miles from proud. Some ugly confession passing between them; he is there because he wants to be, and it's Gansey’s fault for coming to see it.

“Fine,” Gansey says, “let’s share.”

There are too many components that could be the very worst; the look on Kavinsky’s face, delight in his bloodshot eyes, his fingers curling down over the barbs of Ronan’s tattoo, eager and hungry to sink back in; that Ronan is eager, that he holds an arm out for Gansey to take, that his legs slide open, and he is still all loved-up, warm and easy, probably buzzed too, to shave off so many of his sharp edges and leave him obliging; that Gansey is going along with it, that he can’t help it, anger and lust twisted up in knots inside him, hearing the word _base_ in his father’s voice and not caring, not caring as he takes his place between Ronan’s legs.

The film keeps playing behind them, dark and bright alternatingly, Kavinsky’s fingers skeletal on Ronan’s skin until Gansey pulls him away. Ronan clings to Gansey’s shoulders as he’s pressed against his chest, Gansey’s hand finding it’s place at the back of his neck, and there it is, that low groan, the one that trembles down through Gansey’s gut and makes Kavinsky’s grin stretch all the wider.

For a moment Kavinsky just lets him have him, Gansey tasting blood and salt on Ronan’s lips and kissing him all the more fiercely for it. He feels the bite marks on Ronan’s throat, swelling sweetly, presses down just a little on all the tender places while Ronan shudders against him, but Gansey stays deliberate, doesn’t bite, does not try to mask the imprints of teeth with his own; he drags a hand over Ronan’s shorn scalp and one over his hip, reaching for his ass, excruciatingly gentle, a very different kind of possession.

Ronan pants, “Gansey,” with a kind of apology and a kind of hunger, and he could never exist like this out of this space, Gansey knows, he is seeing the Ronan that does not belong to him, and he thought he’d agreed to this months ago but now the reality of it is just making him tighten his grip. His hands cover every inch of Ronan at once, mouth so hot against his, Ronan melting wax in his arms.

Kavinsky just laughs. He leans in behind Ronan, hand doing something Gansey can’t see, asks, “Weren’t we _sharing?_ Why don’t you turn him around, King?”

Gansey does not want to, but Ronan’s moaning low against his mouth, and _what his dog needs_ is apparently both of them. Gansey releases him, just an inch; Ronan pulls back enough to stare at him, half-lidded and hazy, and Gansey is the only sober person in the room by a very wide margin. He expects Ronan to apologise again, or to say something defensive, something to try and excuse what’s about to happen, but instead he says, “You’ve been waiting for this, right? You’ve been holding back,” and it is suddenly very uncomfortably about Gansey. Kavinsky is laughing again; Ronan waits for Gansey’s grip to loosen before he turns himself around.

His pants come off easy; Gansey eyes the bruises on his thighs, the red and stinging marks on his ass, tries to be dispassionate, tries to suppress the new wave of furious, jealous want that surges up in him, fails. Kavinsky’s working the front of his jeans, far enough gone to struggle with the clasp, and Gansey is absolutely not going to help him.

Ronan’s breath is already coming rough, and he turns to look at Gansey over his shoulder, clearly high, clearly anticipating, arching his back as encouragement. Kavinsky catches him by the chin and redirects his attention to his lap; “Come on, pretty boy,” he says, soft, derisive.

Ronan bends his head, and Gansey can’t see, but he can hear it, the wet lap of Ronan’s tongue starting on Kavinsky’s dick, and Kavinsky is _grinning_ again, wicked and terrible, hands curling around Ronan’s throat like they belong there. Gansey burns; Gansey presses a finger into Ronan, two fingers, finds him still soft and lubed-up from before and _god_ , Kavinsky’s face says he knows exactly what Gansey is feeling, even as Ronan shivers and rocks back up against his hand.

There is no actual need to finger him, but Gansey does anyway, every gentle thrust of his fingers followed by Kavinsky’s nails dragging over Ronan’s throat. Ronan’s head works, and his body pushes back for Gansey, and Gansey should have known, probably, that this was what he’d been wanting, what both of them had been wanting.

 _miss ur boy?_ Kavinsky rakes his nails over Ronan like he’s trying to fill in the rest of the tattoo red, and Gansey will not be _base_ , won’t lower himself like this, he will own Ronan without resorting to that kind of animal scratching. Kavinsky’s eyes are so steady on his as he undoes his own trousers; Kavinsky is the one watching, smouldering, as Gansey pushes carefully into Ronan. Ronan shudders, one hand reaching back, scrabbling for Gansey, and Gansey lets him, pushes in slow, feels every shudder as Ronan adjusts to the heat, and there is so little resistance.

“Fuck, Gansey,” Ronan hisses, mouth away from Kavinsky’s cock for exactly as long as it takes him to breathe those two words. Then Kavinsky has his hands on him again, guiding his head back down and the next moan he makes is a muffled, slick sound that Gansey can’t block out.

He moves slowly, gentle, guessing that Ronan is already sore from the rest of the night, but his hands on Ronan’s hips are unyieldingly firm. Ronan’s free hand catches his wrist, wraps around it iron tight; he squeezes, just a little, every time Gansey rocks in deeper. And at his front, Kavinsky is finally focused, hands hungry over Ronan’s skin, cupping the back of his head like he’s not planning on letting him up for air, skimming over his stubble, gaze not quite kind, not quite cruel, something demandingly in-between. But he still looks up to Gansey, still grins, a flash of white teeth that will match the imprint on Ronan’s thigh, and Gansey presses his thumb against it, too hard, makes Ronan stutter between them.

A fresh hail of gunfire from the film behind them, but no one’s looking anymore. Gansey reaches under Ronan’s stomach to stroke his cock, and Ronan’s already dripping, sensitive, bucks back against Gansey even harder, and every shift back onto Gansey is a pull away from K, and every time he rolls forward with Gansey’s thrusts, Kavinsky’s dick gets pushed further into his mouth. For all that Gansey is still feeling a complicated, terrible, ravenous thing, Ronan is twitching and moaning and loving it.

Kavinsky shifts, just a little; says to Ronan, while looking at Gansey, “Relax your throat,” and Gansey shudders and wishes he hadn’t. Ronan’s grip on his wrist is bruising; Kavinsky’s expression is getting too hazy with pleasure to be taunting, but he’s still managing somehow. Ronan starts to work his hips better, adds more pressure when Gansey pushes in, helping to guide him deeper. Gansey isn’t the first he’s taken recently, and _he’s feeling good tonight_ , and from the tangled mess of his urges comes the need to own him, more insistent, even as Kavinsky pushes into Ronan’s throat, Ronan’s breath getting thinner, Kavinsky’s head lolling back, content enough in his power to not even need to watch.

Gansey shoves forward, and Ronan chokes; rocks back and he can breathe, gasping, dick twitching in Gansey’s hand, absolutely full and high enough to like it. Kavinsky’s hips buck, trying to fuck Ronan’s mouth, and Gansey’s hand pushes K’s aside, clamping down on the back of Ronan’s neck, _his_ dog, his boy, and _does he ever moan my name when he’s with you?_ Gansey is enough, he never will.

His hands are the guide; he rolls forward, he helps Ronan’s head down, helps Kavinsky bury himself in Ronan’s throat, his own cock deep in Ronan’s ass, and it doesn’t matter if it’s sloppy seconds if this is the one that counts. Ronan doesn’t gag; Gansey squeezes his throat, strokes his dick, and Ronan comes with a strangled gasping sound, legs suddenly trembling under Gansey, clenching down and shivering.

Kavinsky laughs; Kavinsky eases back enough to clear Ronan’s throat, lets him rasp for breath, gets the view Gansey doesn’t of Ronan’s fuck-drunk eyes and spit and semen dribbling down his chin. In retaliation, Gansey hauls Ronan back up against him, arms around his chest, and here is possession, here is how he says Ronan is _his,_ with Ronan’s head lolling back against his shoulder, eyes closed, lips locked around a reverent, whispered, “Gansey.”

Kavinsky gets to watch as Gansey kisses down Ronan’s neck, arms steady, legs shaking, Ronan soft and wet and endlessly hot as he spills out inside him.

“Well, fuck,” Kavinsky says when they’re done, in a long, smirking drawl that does not make Gansey want to hit him less. “You sure showed me.”

Ronan is a mess; Ronan is a loose pile of limbs that’s going to hurt in the morning and that desperately needs a good shower, and Gansey isn’t about to leave him on Kavinsky’s movie seats after everything he’s done to claim him. He hauls his boy up, arms under his shoulder, jeans on and the rest of his clothes bundled up in hand. Ronan flops onto the backseat of the Pig, sex-soft, still mostly out of it, grins at Gansey with something stupid and unspeakable on his lips.

“Home,” Gansey tells him. “And a shower. And then we’re burning those clothes.”

“Cool,” Ronan answers. “Sure. Whatever.”

Gansey stays leaning around the driver’s seat to stare at him, sprawled out and content. Wants to know if that was really what Ronan had wanted; doesn’t want to know the answer. Doesn’t want to know when Kavinsky’s next party is going to be and when he’ll have to ‘share’ again. Wants to take him home and just be _enough_ for him.

But it’s a miserable hour of the morning, and Ronan is uselessly asleep, and if Gansey is itchy with regret then he’s alone with it. It’s probably just time to block Kavinsky’s number from his phone.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading this filth, we're all in this together


End file.
